


Slàinte mhath

by raiyana



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Brotp, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Halloween
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-03-17 22:55:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13669023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana
Summary: It’s Halloween, once again, and – just like last year – spirits in the castle are high; it’s been a year of uncertainty, of uprooting and unearthing corruption in all levels of government.It’s been a year.In which Severus learns about whisky and Gaelic, and McGonnagall's motives are less than obvious.





	Slàinte mhath

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jaxon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaxon/gifts).



It’s Halloween, once again, and – just like last year – spirits in the castle are high; it’s been a year of uncertainty, of uprooting and unearthing corruption in all levels of government.

It’s been a year.

A year, since the world lost that bright spark of vivaciousness that he had once clung to in hope of something _better_.

A year, since threatening darkness was defeated – not vanquished, he is not foolish enough to believe that the Dark Lord would have no safeguards in place; there are whispers, and clues for those who know how to look.

A year of mourning.

 

Looking at the pumpkins that Hagrid has grown – each one carved with a different face, and flickering with candlelight – Severus Snape sips his coffee. Black as night, but oh, he wishes it was laced with any number of concoctions he could whip up.

Later, he probably will; he knows himself well enough to realise that the bottle waiting in his chambers is like as not going to be empty come morning.

But perhaps he will sleep, perchance dream.

Azkaban stole his dreams – Occlumency helped, but Azkaban was the final nail in the coffin.

Later. He’s still got that bottle from Narcissa – French liqueur is horrid, but it’ll get him good and plastered – and Severus almost looks forward to it, terribly sweet taste and all.

If only to get him through the cheer of the day; does no one care that their peace was bought with blood? _Her_ blood?

He can feel McGonagall’s eyes on him; she, at least, seems subdued in the face of the festivities, her mind as far away as his own.

 

* * *

 

 

“Would you visit me this evening, Professor Snape?”

The question is not a request, and stops him dead in his tracks as he tried to sidle out of the Great Hall after pretending to eat his dinner.

“As you wish, Professor,” he replies, nodding stiffly. She _always_ makes him feel like he’s in for a reprimand, even more unnerving than spending any length of time with Bellatrix Lestrange – the comparison would make both women shudder in disgust, he knows, and the image is almost enough to make him smile – but Professor McGonagall just dips her head slightly in his direction.

It is as good as permission to flee.

He has had several of these ‘visits’ over the past years of teaching; Professor McGonagall either wants him to fail, and keeps a close eye on him to ensure she knows the moment it happens – or she wants him to succeed, sharing small tips from her own experience.

Severus has still not decided which agenda is the truth, and he has to admire the Slytherin-esque way she plays her little game, even if he is determined not to let her see him rattled.

But why did it have to be tonight? Tonight, when his heart is at its most raw and bleeding, when he cannot ignore the heavy weight of guilt hanging around his neck?

 

* * *

 

 

“Have a whisky.”

It’s dry, and bafflingly unexpected, but the offer seems genuine. Severus stands, stunned, in the doorway of the sitting room; he’s been here before, has sat stiffly on the tartan couch that matches the tartan wound around her hat – Professor McGonagall always wears the pointy hat when she’s teaching or in an official capacity; he wonders if she believes it makes her more witch-like. Severus rather thinks it makes her imposing, even more so than the stern bun in her hair, pulled back tightly; the hat makes an already tall woman taller, and McGonagall never seems to slouch, which means he can’t, either, his posture as proper as Lucius’ in her presence.

“Merlin’s Beard, lad,” she sighs, exasperated, and Severus realises he’s been pontificating about hats and postures for far longer than it is polite to keep standing. “I’m not intending to poison you, Severus.” Jumpily, he moves towards the cabinet – of course she wouldn’t, whatever her agenda is, McGonagall is not an underhanded murderer. She might transfigure him into something – a pet, perhaps, if so, he hopes for a snake, though knowing her it would happen in a fit of pique and he’d end up being a miniature lion with a tartan collar. Severus shudders.

Opening the cabinet, he falters for a moment; it’s nothing _but_ whisky, and he honestly has no idea what she’d want him to serve. A few names are recognisable – from the liquor shop, nothing more – but he can’t help but feel like he is being tested and failing. Grabbing a pair of glasses – that, at least, he knows is necessary, even if he’s still mystified by the purpose of offering him whisky instead of the ever-present biscuits – he searches through his memory, trying to remember any instance in which he has overheard Professor McGonagall mention a preference for whisky.

He wishes the bottles were biscuits; he’d have a chance, then, to pick the right one.

Blindly, unnerved by the silent judgement he feels, that piercing gaze striking him right between the shoulder blades – he wants to hunch over, make himself unnoticeable – Severus reaches out, his free hand closing about the cool neck of a bottle.

“Interesting choice.” Professor McGonagall is inscrutable as ever, nodding at him to pour.

The glasses are too full, he thinks, his famed steady hands and measuring eye failing him as a more-than-healthy measure fills each tumbler.

Strength of will stops his hands from shaking when he hands one to her.

“Slàinte mhath.” Holding up her glass in a toast, Professor McGonagall downs at least half of her drink at once.

“Slan-gy ma?” he tries, even though he knows his tongue can’t twist that way – he may have learned proper British, and grew up with working class English, but he’d never even met a Scot until he came to Hogwarts. The whisky burns his throat – preferable to Narcissa’s liqueur, at least – but the smokiness nearly kills him.  

“Slàinte mhath,” she repeats, chuckling at his inept attempt. Severus scowls. He doesn’t like being laughed at, even less than he likes feeling wrongfooted. “We’ll work on that,” she adds, and he thinks he sees an almost-smile on her face.

“You wished to see me,” he asks, putting the glass down on the small table and taking a seat on the tartan couch; Professor McGonagall rests in a tall wingback chair, studying him in a way she has not done before, not even when he was s student called to her office.

Severus stops himself from fidgeting, suddenly wishing he had not abandoned the whisky – his glass looks so far away.

“It has been a year of great change, Professor Snape,” she replies, turning the glass in her hand slowly, the amber liquid forming waves up the sides, running back down lazily. “Next year promises even greater ones; but that is not why you are here.”

“Why?” He has a feeling he ought to know, but he is still surprised at her response.

“Because she was your friend, and tonight is the anniversary of her death.” Leaning closer, she pushes his glass back towards him. “I have studied you – in meetings with the Order, at Hogwarts, during our… guidance sessions – and I… drink your whisky, Professor.”

It is not an answer, but he’s beyond certain that he does not want to hear her state the reason aloud – he can guess, easily enough, she must have known of their friendship, at least at school.

Severus drinks his whisky, forgetting the burn until it hits him again, making him double over coughing.

“Laphroaig is possibly a bit too strong for a beginner,” Professor McGonagall says, kindly ignoring the steaming eyes of her guest. Severus wheezes. He thought he had tried strong liquor before, but this… amber firebrand … is something else. “I would recommend a Talisker, next,” she continues. Severus stares, but Professor McGonagall’s attention is entirely absorbed by the contents of her glass, her head tilted back in obvious enjoyment as she pours it down her throat, smacking her lips lightly.

“You… want me to drink whisky?”

“Talisker, lad, it’s on the bottom shelf – might be hiding, a bit, got a bottle from my cousin…” Professor McGonagall trails off, her raised eyebrow as effective as an actual command.

Severus is on his feet before he realises it, suddenly feeling slightly lightheaded from the first glass. Finding the bottle marked Talisker – it still has a small card tied to the neck – he pours again, slightly less awkward. One finger, each; looking at McGonagall, her eyebrow twitching minutely, he adds another splash to both glasses.

“These are both from Islay, a small island off the coast,” she says, studying her glass, “Islay malt is the best for smoky whiskies, lad, peaty soil. Mind that.” Severus just nods, dumbly, sipping his whisky. It’s still smoky, but also sweet, and less burning as it slides down his throat. “Of course, I prefer Lagavulin if we’re talking Islay, but Talisker is better for virgins.”

“V-virgins?” Severus splutters, trying to convince himself he misheard her. Surely, she’s not implying…

“You’ve never had proper whisky, lad, clear as day,” Professor McGonagall interrupts his thoughts smoothly, her form not even wavering as she makes her way to the cupboard. “Means I’ll have to train you right, of course.”

Severus isn’t quite sure how he went from slightly-tolerable-colleague to whisky-drinking-protégée, but he’s beginning to feel nicely mellow from the drink; perhaps the latter option isn’t so bad, after all.

His drink has been refilled.

“Speyside Balvenie. Sweet.”

He likes this one, something almost citrusy in it.

 

* * *

 

Severus is not quite sure when he lost his shoes, but the tartan couch is supremely comfortable – as is the tartan blanket that seems to have magically appeared – and he no longer remembers how many whiskys he has tasted, trying to discover his favourite. He’s not sure he can still taste them, really, but McGonagall doesn’t seem to care.

“Sláinte mhath!” he exclaims, carefully not sloshing liquid gold down his fingers as he raises the glass towards the ceiling. They’ve been toasting things for some time now, magic, whisky, _poetry_ – McGonagall taught him a naughty limerick, so they had to toast limericks, and Severus felt quite proud he remembered one his Da once told him; it made McGonagall laugh, which felt like some sort of victory. She cheers; he’s getting better at the Gaelic toast, even if he still can’t pronounce it throatily enough for her.

 

* * *

 

“To Oichne Shamha, and those who have gone before us,” McGonagall says, her voice rough. “Slàinte mhath.”

Severus turns his head, but her eyes are closed, no tears caught on her lashes. Still, grief lines her face, and he thinks he would see a row of faces if he dared dip into her mind – temptation beckons, but Severus resists, feeling strangely honoured to be included in what he suddenly realises is a private ritual; Samhein, after all, being the night of the year where the veil between the living and the death is thinnest.

“Slàinte mhath,” he agrees softly, red hair moving with the flutter of a breeze on a summer’s day in his thoughts as he empties his glass. _Lily. Slàinte mhath, wherever you are._


End file.
